Gladstone
by despommes
Summary: Gladstone is a very special cat. Just ask either of his daddies.
1. Titration Pink

"Sherlock."

"John."

John stands in the sitting room doorway, plastic shopping bags drooping from around his wrists. They are dripping with rainwater, as is his coat. He gives Sherlock a look, mouth slightly open and one brow a little higher than the other. His arms come up to convey his confusion, lifted outwards from his body.

"I know your birthday was last month, but Molly wouldn't let me take him until he was ten weeks old."

"I require more of an explanation than that."

The ghost of an almost-smile flitters over Sherlock's face. "Of course you do."

"Don't." There is a warning in John's voice and in his eyes. He crosses the room in swift, agitated strides, setting the shopping on the kitchen table and taking off his coat. Turning to face Sherlock, he fixes him with a serious stare the entire way to his armchair. Upon sitting, he lowers his head to the object of his distress, curled happily in Sherlock's hands. "You didn't think to ask me what I thought?"

"Then it would hardly have been a surprise, John," Sherlock says a little dramatically. "Besides, I didn't need to. You're a cat person." He looks up into John's face, as though waiting for a signal or code word.

John sighs. "Go on, let's hear it."

"Cat hair can linger for years, and several still remain on the surfaces in your bedroom: duvet, coats from years past, the insides of your shoes. Gray and black, probably a silver tabby—"

"Gladys," John nods, looking a little forlorn.

"—The copious amounts on the duvet suggest you let the cat sleep in the bed with you; you were very attached to your pet. You don't become visibly upset when presented with those horrid animal support ads until the first cat is displayed, upon which you immediately look away and change the channel. Seeing dogs in states of distress makes you upset, but not nearly as much as suffering cats. In conclusion, you're very fond of cats, and therefore there was no need to ask for your opinion on getting one."

"But what about Mrs. Hudson?" John asks, bringing a hand to his temple. "Did you think to ask if our landlady approved of pets at all, much less a cat?"

"Unnecessary; Mrs. Hudson loves cats. Her sitting room is covered in photos of cats from years past."

"Okay, Sherlock, that's fine, yes, but did you actually ask her?"

Sherlock looks down at the furry creature purring in his hands. The kitten, finally being addressed directly, raises its head to stare up at him and squints its little grey-green eyes in satisfaction. Sherlock cracks a tiny grin. He was always rather fond of cats as well.

"Sherlock!"

"No." He makes direct eye contact with John and holds his gaze for a long time.

John is clearly upset. His mouth is set in a terse line and his fingers are digging into the arms of his chair. In an attempt to distract John from the current topic of discussion, Sherlock holds out his hands, full of inquisitively sniffing kitten, to John. John's eyes immediately soften when presented with his belated birthday gift, though they harden again when he realizes what Sherlock is doing. Regardless, he eagerly takes the offered kitten into his arms, holding it tenderly to his chest and smiling when it mews and bumps its fuzzy head underneath his chin. Crisis averted, Sherlock stands to attend to his chemistry titration in the kitchen.

"Oh no, no no no," John says around the tiny paws that are trying to climb his face, "We are not done, Sherlock. Get back here." Knowing that Sherlock will not, in fact, get back here, John stands to follow him in the kitchen. The kitten digs its claws into John's cardigan at the sudden change in distance from the floor and he grimaces. "You said Molly gave you the kitten?"

"Oh yes, you remember." Sherlock snaps on a pair of bright turquoise rubber gloves. "Her Bengal queen had one more kitten than she had anticipated. She had not found a buyer for the extra so I offered to take it off her hands."

"Bengal?" John scoops the kitten from his shoulder to inspect it. His first observations had revealed it to be nothing more than abhorrently cute and extremely small, still able to fit in the cup of his hands at ten weeks old, but now that he was actually looking at it, he was struck by its exotic markings. The kitten's fur is a vibrant orange-brown and is covered black rosettes, almost like a leopard. Its belly is decked out in little black spots and the face is decorated with an intricate pattern of black stripes. Its little mouth is lined with little black lips, and the fur around them is lighter, almost white, giving it an adorable little goatee of sorts. "Christ, but that must have been expensive," he breathes.

"Molly was selling the others for £600, but she let me have him for £300, provided we neuter him." He waves off John's stunned expression with a hideously gloved hand. "Runt of the litter, short notice buyer, all of that."

"Jesus, Sherlock! £300!" John sputters. The kitten cries and attempts to climb over his shoulder and down his back before John grabs at it again. "You spent £300 on—on a cat!"

"Bengals are very valuable, John!" Sherlock says exasperatedly over the beaker of his dark pink titration. "They're bred with small Asian leopard cats for their exotic appearance. They're intelligent, energetic, curious, and affectionate. Most grow to be over twenty pounds. Very special cats, and I got that one for a very good price. A bargain! Look, he even has papers, outstanding genealogy. I checked. Molly's a very well-respected breeder."

John can't help but be astounded at how unsurprised he is to learn that about Molly Hooper. "Still, Sherlock, that's a lot of money."

Sherlock huffs. Mouth set in a grumpy line, he rips off his gloves and marches over, arms reaching out for the kitten. "Well, if you can't appreciate—"

"Hey, wait a minute now!" John swiftly steps back, holding the kitten out of Sherlock's reach. He feels like he's a small boy again and refusing to share his colored pencils with Harry. "I didn't say I didn't appreciate anything!"

"It's your birthday gift." Sherlock has stopped grabbing for the cat now. He sounds almost vulnerable when he speaks. Bashful, even. "I wanted… It had to be special."

"Sherlock, you bought me a new electric razor and got us tickets for bloody Cirque du Soleil on my birthday." John remembers that night fondly; afterwards they had gone to a sushi bar because it was half-price sashimi night and John had grown rather fond of Japanese. "Besides, that was almost three weeks ago."

"I told you, Molly wouldn't let me take him until he was ten weeks!" Sherlock sits back down at the kitchen table, arms crossed over his chest resolutely. "I thought you would like it." The bashful tone is back and he's turned his head so he's facing away from John. "You miss your other cat, Gladys—ghastly name for a cat, might I add—and you get lonely sometimes. You can't keep a girlfriend—"

"Oh, thanks for that, mate, really."

"A cat would make up for the lack of close companionship. Molly has her kittens to keep her company when her relationships fail. Now you have your own. It's the same concept, really."

There are so many things John wants to say but doesn't. Particularly something about the reason his girlfriends all turn tail and run, namely his overly demanding and sometimes aggressive flat mate. "I…" He inhales and exhales. Reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His head head snaps back to him.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

He looks almost surprised. His eyes widen by a just a fraction and a small flush dusts his ridiculous cheekbones. John knows he's not really used to hearing those words from anyone, and the thought sends a little dart of pain through his chest. Nose in the air and lips pursed almost haughtily, Sherlock extends his neck in a single, slow nod and his eyes break away from John's again.

"You are welcome."

John smiles and gives Sherlock's shoulder a friendly clap. His other hand is occupied with now squirming kitten and he moves to hand him to Sherlock so he can put away the shopping. "So it's a boy?" he asks, being careful not to make too much noise with the plastic bags. Gladys had always been skittish of them and he didn't want to frighten the new kitten. "What should his name be?"

"His name is Gladstone."

John's brow creases. The kitten looks up at Sherlock and meows, quite loudly. Sherlock smiles proudly and John looks away with a strange fluttering in his stomach.

"I can't even name my own kitten?"

"Gladstone is a fine name. Listen; he even responds to it." Sherlock fixes the kitten with his glass-colored eyes. "Gladstone."

The kitten meows again and Sherlock grins again. John huffs. He feels oddly betrayed by the tiny feline cupped in Sherlock's hands. "He's probably crying because he's starving. Did you get any kitten food?"

"Molly gave me some when I picked him up this afternoon." Sherlock points to a cupboard. "Beside the rainforest soil samples. Rainforest, John!"

John's hand bypasses the marshland soil samples because, for fuck's sake, marsh dirt looks exactly like jungle dirt at first glance, and grabs the small bag of dry kitten food. A sudden thought hits him. "Sherlock," he says suspiciously, "did you pick up anything else for the kitten? Toys? A litter box?"

"No, but you have some errands to run, John." Sherlock smiles cheekily at him and goes back to stroking Gladstone's chin. Because, given that new information, John really doesn't have the patience to argue over the cat's bloody name anymore.

"Oh my god," he mutters. "You would. You would bring home a kitten without buying the necessities. You didn't even forget about it, just assumed I would do it." Slinging the bag of kitten food on the table near Sherlock, he puts his raincoat back on and makes a point to take Sherlock's debit card. "Do not argue with me when I don't buy the right color litter pan, or whatever it is you decide to be pissy about when I get back."

As he descends the staircase to the front door, he hears Sherlock call an echoing "Happy birthday, John," from the kitchen. Despite himself, John grins as he opens the door and keeps grinning after he locks the door behind him and begins his walk to the nearest pet shop.


	2. Pumpkin Orange

Gladstone is spoiled to hell within a week.

The flat is now full of cat toys. Feather monstrosities attached to plastic fishing rods, ghastly colored mice infused with catnip, and tiny little balls that jingle and flash different colors. There are two new litter pans, one in the bathroom and one in the sitting room. The one in the sitting room is hidden behind a decorative screen for maximum privacy. In the kitchen sit a silver bowl for kibble and a small fountain Sherlock brought home that purified and aerated Gladstone's drinking water. A small cat tree has been erected near the sitting room window that looks out over Baker Street. It is about four feet high. The bottom level is a cabin complete with a hidey-hole and a cushioned top. The uppermost level is a small, shallow box lined with one of John's old jumpers (Gladstone has taken to kneading the worn wool with his tiny claws, so John put one out for him in order to save the remaining jumpers in his wardrobe).

Gladstone himself now sports a pumpkin colored kitten collar. Sherlock had sighed at the warm orange shade, but John just grinned and looked on proudly as his kitten tried to bat at the collar's little brass bell. He'd also put on it Gladstone's proof-of-immunization tags and a name tag with their contact information. Initially, John thought the bell would give Sherlock fits with the constant jingling all over the flat, but after a few jarring frights they both learn to appreciate the giveaway of Gladstone's approximate location at all times.

Most nights, if John and Sherlock are not running all over London on a case, Gladstone sleeps with John. When John goes to bed Gladstone scampers after him to help him brush his teeth at the bathroom sink and frolic in the clothing he discards for pyjamas. When John turns out his immaculately made bed, his kitten will climb his way up the overhanging comforter and wait for John to lie down and lay his head on the pillow. He likes to burrow into the space between his chin and chest and purr until they're both asleep.

Sometimes, though, Gladstone will spend the night curled up in Sherlock's lap while he's peering through a microscope at the kitchen table or going through case files and e-mails on the sofa. Usually it's nights when John gets home late from work at the surgery, though occasionally Gladstone will wake up in the wee hours of the morning and pitter-patter down the stairs from John's room to curl into the folds of Sherlock's dressing gown and resume sleeping. When Sherlock deems it late enough to allow himself rest, he leaves his mess in the kitchen, grabs his laptop, and holds Gladstone to his chest on the way to his own room. Gladstone usually settles himself against the long stretch of Sherlock's lean torso, on top of the duvet, and they'll both get a few more hours of sleep.

No matter where he sleeps, one thing is sure of their new kitten. Usually between 7:00 and 7:30 in the AM, Gladstone will disentangle himself from whichever flat mate he found refuge with the previous night to race into the kitchen and _yowl_ for his breakfast. It's like nothing John's ever heard before. It's a croaky, piercing cry that he had discovered was characteristic of Bengals and it reverberates through the entire flat. It immediately awakens him all the way upstairs, but not Sherlock. If he's run himself ragged enough on a case, he'll sleep right through their kitten's howls. John will rise and shuffle down the stairs into the kitchen. Gladstone's wails will turn into little yipping mews as he runs to show John where his food bowl is. John puts an appropriate portion of canned tuna in the little silver bowl, gently batting Gladstone's fuzzy head away from his hands as he spoons it in. He's never seen a cat so eager for his breakfast, and watches in amazement as Gladstone _inhales_ his tuna before he exits the kitchen to get ready for work. Later in the evening they'll repeat this with the vet-recommended kitten chow in the cupboard.

When John is gone, Gladstone spends his day exploring and re-exploring the flat, sleeping on every surface available to him, and being an adorable nuisance to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. When Sherlock goes out during the day, his kitten follows Mrs. Hudson the not-housekeeper from room to room as she tidies up for her tenants, and when Sherlock returns Gladstone always attempts to sneak up behind him and surprise him, although the ever-jingling bell never fails to give him away. When John comes home from work in the late afternoon, Gladstone darts from one flat mate to the other to initiate play. John is usually the one to cave first and, with Gladstone's help, pulls a toy from the designated toy-basket. The next couple of hours are filled with John's delighted exclamations and Sherlock's smug comments as their kitten jumps and tumbles across the sitting room floor.

And then the cycle repeats.

"He's starting to get bigger," John says one morning, a little more than two weeks after Sherlock brought Gladstone home. It's Saturday, and he's grateful for his weekend off. He's sitting in his armchair, sipping at his tea and watching Gladstone climb up his cat tree.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees over the newspaper. He's still in his worn t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and dressing gown at well past nine in the morning. "Soon he'll outgrow that atrocious collar."

"Perhaps you'd like to go to the pet shop yourself next time," John quips. He vividly remembers walking in the rain to buy immediate necessities for the kitten Sherlock brought home out of the blue.

"Perhaps I would." Sherlock snaps the newspaper.

They sit like that for a few more moments. John sips idly at his tea and munches on a breakfast of toast and orange marmalade. He much preferred raspberry jam over the orange, but Sherlock likes orange best and John considers getting him to eat anything resembling fruit a victory in the ways of a (somewhat) balanced diet. When he'd first moved in, John was convinced Sherlock consumed nothing but biscuits, crisps, and tea, and only in between cases. Now he could usually get Sherlock to join him at mealtimes, if there is no puzzle to solve or case to close.

They'd made it their mission that week to begin socializing Gladstone. Clients that come in for consultations are encouraged to scratch him by the ears or pick up a toy and watch him leap for it. Gladstone is still quite shy when meeting new people; the first time a new pair of feet walk through the door of 221B, he had run to John and hidden behind his legs, spine arched with his fur standing on end in attempt to make himself look threatening. Now, though, he is far less hostile with new company, if a little wary at first. He grows fonder and fonder of Mrs. Hudson and her antique feather duster every day.

John gently places his empty tea mug on his crumb-littered plate with a small _clink_. "Any plans for today?" he asks, rising to take his dishes to the sink.

"Expecting company soon." Sherlock folds the paper and adds it to the three-foot-tall pile of other ones by the sofa.

"Yeah?" John turns on the faucet. "Clients?"

"Not quite."

There is a knock at the front door, the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice as she murmurs good morning, and then footsteps up the stairs. Lestrade swings open the flat door with a confused Mrs. Hudson in tow.

"Morning, lads." Lestrade looks at Sherlock and grins. Sherlock stares back at him expressionlessly. "Beautiful day."

Indeed it was. The sun was shining and there was a lovely breeze blowing throughout London. John had even been considering going for a walk later that afternoon, hoping that maybe Sherlock would be tempted to join him.

"Good morning, Greg." John wipes his wet hands on a dishtowel. He offers a polite smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, Sherlock knows why I'm here." He gives him a cheeky wink. Sherlock glares back defiantly and steeples long his fingers under his chin, simultaneously crossing one gangly leg over the other.

"The case is solved; that singular piece of evidence is no longer important to you."

"That's the thing Sherlock," Lestrade says, settling into what has become known as John's armchair. "Part of my job requires me to do a bit of record keeping. And, as you may know, that's awfully hard to do when gits like you steal evidence."

"You stole evidence? Again?" John asks.

"Oh, just the one letter. The killer has been apprehended, but there are still several aspects of the victim's last letter that elude me."

"Not my problem. At all." Lestrade nods to him. "Please fetch me my missing evidence."

Sherlock hmphs and crosses his arms over his chest. Turning his head slightly, he lifts his nose in the air. "I cannot. It's been misplaced."

"Sherlock."

He turns his head to look at John incredulously. "John, it's lost—"

"Then go find it." John knows bloody well it was not lost. Sherlock is just equal parts too stubborn to turn over something he deemed necessary to himself and equal parts too lazy to get up and look in the clusterfuck of detective work that was his room.

He doesn't miss the vicious narrowing of eyes in his direction as Sherlock springs angrily from the sofa and stomps into his room, silk of his dressing gown billowing after him like a great blue cape.

"Cheers, John," Lestrade says gratefully. John nods and takes the warm patch on the sofa that had been previously occupied by Sherlock.

"Can I get you some tea, or—"

"Oh, no, thanks." His eyes are wandering around the flat, probably marveling at the controlled disarray littered about the place. "Hello," he murmurs, gaze directed to the cat tree by the window. A pair of gleaming, olive-colored eyes peers back at him over the corner of the jumper-lined box. Gladstone jumps down from his perch and scampers over to John to brush against his pant leg. Lestrade leans over the edge of the chair, hand outstretched. "Who is this?"

"What? Oh—Gladstone." John had forgotten that not everyone yet knew about the newest inhabitant of 221B Baker Street. Gladstone slowly creeps across the carpet to sniff curiously at Lestrade's hand.

"When did you get a cat?"

"Few weeks ago. Sherlock just. Brought him home one day. His idea of a birthday present." John chuckles.

Gladstone leans into the stroking of Lestrade's fingers and purrs contentedly. "Wow," Lestrade breathes. Gladstone turns and stretches, showing off his darkening rosettes. "He's different looking, all right. Exotic."

"He's a Bengal." John can't help the swell of pride in his chest that blossoms when someone admires his cat for the first time. People were usually caught off guard and fascinated by the tiny leopard that ran about his sitting room. "Sherlock says they're bred with some wildcat from Asia."

"He's marvelous." Once Gladstone bounds off to chase after a brightly colored mouse that isn't actually running to be chased, Lestrade sits back in his chair. "So, does this mean…?"

John's brows furrow. "Mean what?"

"Well." Lestrade looks at him pointedly. "It's just, the two of you have a _cat_ together now."

"Oh for the love of—for the last bloody time, it's not _like_ that! I'm not gay. I'm not. And Sherlock is, well, Sherlock. We just live together, he bought me a cat, and the cat happens to be rather fond of the both of us. Doesn't mean we're shagging!"

"Now, I didn't say that." Lestrade tries to fight back a smile but is largely unsuccessful.

"Sorry." John takes a deep breath through his nose and lets the air pass slowly through his lips. "It's just, a couple days ago, at that river bank crime scene. Anderson can really get under my skin with his snarky shite. I guess he thinks neither of us can hear him and it usually just rolls of Sherlock like water, but I hear what he says to Sally about, you know. Us being a—a couple."

"Yeah, Anderson can be a real wanker sometimes. I wouldn't worry about it. Pretty sure it's more directed at Sherlock than it is to you. The way Sherlock is with him."

"Still." John reaches down to adjust the bell on Gladstone's collar, which had gotten caught on the underside and wasn't jingling the way it was supposed to. "One of these days. He'll get a piece of my mind."

"And I'll be glad to see it."

Sherlock noisily trudged back in to the room and stopped right in front of Lestrade, thrusting the plastic evidence bag containing the much sought after letter spitefully in his face. "Here. Now you can take it and file it away, where it will completely forgotten and of no use to anyone."

"Yes, thanks." Lestrade takes the letter and stands, grinning at them both. "Well. I'll be seeing you boys later. Enjoy your weekend."

"Yes, goodbye." Sherlock grabs up his violin and flops down long ways on the sofa. His pale, bare feet end up underneath John's thigh and his chin falls to his chest. John can see him entering into full-blown sulk-mode and bites his lip in concern. Sherlock's fingers idly pluck out augmented chords along the violin's strings.

John looks up to see Lestrade catch his eye as he opens the door, looking at him like he knows something the two of them don't. John, mortified, can feel himself blush.

"Bye, John."

"Goodbye, Greg."

And with that, Lestrade leaves, footsteps trailing off down the stairs. He bids Mrs. Hudson a cheerful farewell before the front door opens and closes.

Gladstone, blissfully ignorant of Sherlock's darkened mood, takes to playing with the silken belt of Sherlock's dressing gown. The little bell jingles as he rolls on the floor, one end of the blue belt in his mouth and his legs kicking up at the length of it in the air.

John can hear the whirring of Sherlock's great brain, the irritated buzz of a mystery left unfinished. He has no idea what pattern or missing puzzle piece Sherlock saw in the victim's last letter to her sister, but he knows it will keep him on edge for days, if not weeks. A loose end that never got unraveled. He sighs.

Sherlock flings his violin to the carpet in a fit. His long white hands scoop Gladstone up from the floor and hold him to his chest. He turns around on the sofa and pulls his knees into himself so that all that's visible is the curve of his spine in the blue silk of the dressing gown and the damp end of its belt curled up on the floor. His legs kick into John's thigh as he situates himself. John knows that Sherlock's not only turning his back on the room, but also John as well. He's most likely tweaked at John for making him hand over the letter, and John is almost sorry. Almost. He can hear Gladstone's little rolling chirps as he attempts to scout out the most ideal spot between Sherlock's belly and the back of the sofa.

"Sherlock."

He gives no indication that he heard John, much less any sign he intends to respond. John sighs and stands up. He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock."

He can barely see the minute tilt of dark curls back towards him, most likely out of surprise from the small physical contact.

"Hey. The next time we go to the MET, I'll sneak you a copy of the letter. That way no one will find out. You can finish whatever it was you were working on."

He moves to walk back into the kitchen, but is startled to find his arm being yanked back towards the couch. Sherlock's hand is clutched around his wrist. His eyes shyly avoid John's for a moment, but when they finally meet he's alarmed at the gratitude and the warmth he finds in that topaz colored gaze.

"Thank you, John."

John knows what he's saying. Thank you, for knowing. For understanding. For _caring_.

He smiles, and grips Sherlock's wrist right back. He sees his eyes fall down to their intertwined grip. Sherlock's flesh is warm, despite its icy color. John can feel the tendons in his wrist flexors, the carpal bones there and the thrum of blood under his skin. They stay like that for a moment, until he is afraid Sherlock will discover the blush on his face without seeing it. He breaks his grip to calmly make his way into the kitchen. "Tea?" he asks.

"Please."

Sherlock smiles to himself and listens to the sounds of John performing tea rituals at the stove. Well, he's not smiling _entirely_ to himself. Gladstone gives him a knowing gaze and a slow blink, nestled into the crook of Sherlock's arm.

Yes, Sherlock thinks. The three of them have something special here.


	3. Rainbow Feathers

Sometime during of Gladstone's first month at 221B, Sherlock tales it upon himself to train their young cat.

"Bengals are both very powerful and very intelligent," he tells John from the sofa one evening, dangling a feather-adorned fishing rod toy over Gladstone's fuzzy little head. Sherlock has been lounging around in his pyjamas and dressing gown all day long, opting to, for the moment, obsess over the cat rather than sulk over the lack of an interesting case. Gladstone is putting up quite the fight, batting savagely at the cluster of rainbow colored feathers. Occasionally he lands a successful bite and Sherlock lifts him off the rug for a few seconds, his wiry kitten's body twisting and tugging, until he is lowered back down to Earth to begin the struggle all over again. "It only makes sense that he needs to be stimulated, not just physically, but mentally as well."

John chuckles. "That right?" He doesn't look up from his laptop's keyboard, head bent to peck away at the keys. He is sitting across from Sherlock in his armchair, attempting to chronicle a case from last month that he hasn't yet gotten to post. It takes him a few seconds to register the lack of reply; he can practically feel Sherlock's eyes settle on him, beseeching him to look up.

"You don't think I can do it." John had long ago learned to recognize that certain intonation in Sherlock's voice. It meant he smelled a challenge and was ready to rise up to it.

"No, that's not what I meant." John shakes his head and looks back to his blog. "If living here has taught me one thing, it's never to underestimate you when you've set your mind to something. It's just." He bites his lip, searching for the words. "Cats can be very stubborn, Sherlock."

"Cats can be trained, John. It's not unheard of."

"I know. But it's going to be very hard to convince a cat to do something _he isn't motivated to do_. Gladstone's not a dog, and I know for a fact your patience is not infinite."

"John, I doubt even _you_ could have failed to notice just how food-motivated our cat is. That could prove to be a great boon in training him. Surely you can't have forgotten the lengths to which he went for your bacon sandwich last Monday—"

"No, I certainly haven't," John mutters into his keyboard. He vividly remembers Gladstone's death defying leap across two countertops and a kitchen sink towards the aforementioned sandwich, only to face plant straight into the edge of the table. John had let out a slightly less than manly yelp and proceeded to fret over Gladstone for the remainder of the afternoon, much to Sherlock's amusement. The kitten turned out to be just fine, if resigned to wait until he was of a more impressive size to attempt a stunt of that magnitude again.

"I intend to use that advantage to motivate him into doing my bidding." Sherlock seems unaware as to just how foreboding that sounded. "If he is left without stimulation, he might take to tearing apart the furniture or developing behavioral problems—"

"Yes, because god knows it's hard enough work keeping _you_ from doing just that."

Sherlock promptly shuts his mouth with a snap of teeth and gives John a haughty, sulky glare. With a huff, he tosses the plastic handle of the feathery toy to the ground and snatches up Gladstone to stomp off to his room. Gladstone is still attached to the toy by the feathered bit and it bounces against Sherlock's arm as he stomps away.

"Hey!" John calls from his chair. "Where do you think you're going? You got him last night, tonight's my turn!"

"Good night, John." Sherlock's snappish parting remark is punctuated by the sharp slam of his door.

"Oh, hell!" John closes his laptop, accepting the fact that he would not be posting the details of a bank-robbery-turned-cannibalism-scare and hefts himself out of his chair. In nine strides he is at Sherlock's bedroom door.

He knocks once. "Sherlock."

There is no reply.

"Sherlock, it's barely nine o' clock, I know you're not going to bed."

"Leave my door at once."

"What—no! Sherlock, you're being a child!"

"I am not."

"For god's sakes, you're holding my cat hostage in your room—"

"Our cat!"

"Our c—the cat! You're holding the cat hostage! Okay, you know what," John grasps the doorknob and braces himself. "I'm going to count to four, and when I get to four you are going to open this door and give Gladstone to me or I am going to come in myself and _make_ you. Do you understand?"

"Piss off."

He takes a deep breath. "One."

Silence.

"Two."

There is a rustling on the other side of the door, which John assumes is Sherlock flopping about on his unmade bed. Probably trying to hide Gladstone.

"Three."

Still no evidence of a pending peace offering. John's hand tightens around the doorknob in preparation of turning it.

"Four."

John swings the door wide, flinching internally at the sound if it hitting the wall but keeping the concern out of his face so he appears as intimidating as he can in an argument over a kitten. Sherlock's head whips around to face him. He is perched on his bed and his eyes are widened in what John is oddly satisfied to find is genuine surprise. He can see Sherlock tense on top of the duvet in anticipation of an attack.

"Where is he, Sherlock?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"All right then."

John launches himself at the world's only consulting detective. In a flash, he's looming over Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock begins to squirm, letting loose a badly aimed kick to John's belly. John can't help the poorly contained grin on his face as he moves to kneel on one of Sherlock's thighs to prevent future kicks in his direction. Sherlock attempts wrap his other leg around the back of John's kneecap in order to incapacitate him, but it doesn't exactly work out as planned. All that manages to accomplish is his further entrapment in providing opportunity for John to grab at his wrists.

"John _Watson_!" he nearly shrieks from behind clenched teeth. His face is turning pink with the exertion and the close proximity. The smell of John's aftershave is everywhere. He yanks his arms back and forth with the intention of dislodging John's grip on his wrists. Sherlock is completely competent in hand-to-hand combat, but John had caught him off guard and he's getting tangled in his dressing gown, not to mention the fact that John was a decorated _soldier_.

"Where's Gladstone?" John's voice is laced with a breathy laugh that does nothing to combat the flush in Sherlock's cheeks. He can't help it; he knows he's too old to be wrestling like a rowdy teenager with his flat mate on said flat mate's bed, but it's fun to watch him squirm. "I'll let you go if you tell me where you hid him."

"I won't!"

"Fine."

Sherlock gives a completely masculine little shout of surprise as he is flipped over on his stomach. John pulls his arm behind his back and puts his weight on it, just enough to restrain but not enough to cause any real pain. Sherlock kicks his legs to try and catch John in the back with his heels, but the slippery bastard is just out of reach. The side of his face is being shoved into his duvet and he's starting to drool all over it.

"_John_!" he groans, giving one more full body squirm and feeling John's ribcage expand over his back.

"Where—"

There is a familiar reverberating meow and John's head snaps up to survey the room. Sherlock gives a half-hearted sob against his now soggy duvet. "P-pocket!" he croaks. "Other dressing gown!"

John stands from the bed to investigate and Sherlock sighs with relief. Inhaling freely, without the dead weight of and ex-army doctor, he turns over on his back to stare at his ceiling.

"There," John murmurs, extracting Gladstone from the pocket of Sherlock's burgundy dressing gown, which was hanging from the hook on his closet door. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

As soon as Sherlock moves to launch himself from the bed, John darts out the door with Gladstone cradled in his arms. He's not jaded; he may have just bested Sherlock in a close proximity tussle, but he knows Sherlock can outrun him any day of the week. He loses him at the foot of the stairs leading up to his room. John closes the door behind him and leans against it. Gladstone jumps from his arms and runs to re-explore the closet.

"Don't think for one _second_ that I will let this indignity go unpunished, John!" Sherlock calls up to him. "You'll have to come out to brush your teeth and I will be _waiting_."

—O—

Gladstone's training begins the very next day. Sherlock, after a few hours of reading internet articles, goes out and buys a clicker and numerous pouches of fish-themed treats and begins immediately upon returning home.

In fifteen minutes, he has taught Gladstone to sit.

"Oh, fuck me." John glares in disbelief as Sherlock clicks the clicker and feeds Gladstone another treat.

"He will learn to associate the sound of the clicker with receiving a treat, and a reward in the form will no longer be necessary. Eventually he'll just heed the command without the aid of the clicker."

"Yes, yes, right." John goes back to reading his paper.

Next is breaking Gladstone's unsettling counter surfing habit.

Sherlock purchases several sheets of sticky fly-paper and a few cheap place mats. He applies the fly-paper to the mats and leaves them on the countertops. When Gladstone jumps up to help John prepare his eggs and toast the next morning, his little feet stick. He begins to cry and looks at John with wide, shining eyes in a desperate plea for help. John, chuckling to himself, pulls the poor thing free of the sticky trap and deposits him on the floor.

"Won't be doing that again anytime soon, will you?" he murmurs, watching as Gladstone scampers off to climb into his cat tree. To reinforce the proper use of a climbing surface, Sherlock presses the clicker and feeds him a treat.

A week later, John sighs as he watches Sherlock, bent in half so that his back is parallel to the floor, command Gladstone to jump from the top story of his cat tree and onto his flattened shoulder blades.

"My god." John shakes his head. Sherlock looks over and flashes him a smug smile. With a familiar click, he reaches over to feed Gladstone a tuna-shaped treat. "I'm speechless," John murmurs. "Speechless. That's amazing."

Sherlock grabs up Gladstone from his back and puts him down on the floor. "It isn't difficult, John. Combined with his intelligence, Gladstone's surprising willingness to please makes him very amenable to instruction. Not to mention the eagerness for praise in the form of food." He flops down next to John on the couch, sitting cross-legged in his suit trousers and with his Italian shoes still on his feet. "What next, do you think? Shall I start with the hoops?"

"I think you need a bloody case, Sherlock, and soon."


End file.
